


A Brand New Mystery

by LokiOfSassgaard



Series: Sex is Boring [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-25
Updated: 2011-03-25
Packaged: 2018-05-28 21:30:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6346102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LokiOfSassgaard/pseuds/LokiOfSassgaard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock tries to work out where the problem lies. John finally tells him how he feels.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Brand New Mystery

Something was wrong. Undeniably, clearly, he should have realised it sooner, wrong. It had never before occurred to him to even consider such a detail about himself as a fault, because no one had ever seen fit to point it out as one. Save for two disastrously horrible blind dates in uni, Sherlock's full experience with the matter barely spanned a fortnight. Technically, it could be argued to have amounted to more time, but neither he nor John had even noticed the change in their patterns until recently. Very recently.

For the first time ever, the very real possibility of the transport being well and truly broken and in need of repair had crossed his mind. Why didn't he want to do these things with John? If he were healthy and normal he'd want to. But all signs seemed to point to him being neither of these things. He was in need of some sort of mystery cure.

And there it was. A brand new mystery. Something to solve; something to take apart bit by bit, diagn ose, and repair. He threw himself into this mystery just like he did every serial killer he'd been enlisted to find.

The initial struggle was figuring out where to begin. The problem with the internet is that it has information on everything. If you don't know what you're looking for, you can spend hours or days looking up anything at all, only to find much too late that you'd been led down the completely wrong path.

The first problem was obvious – a seemingly complete and total lack of anything even resembling a sex drive. He rarely masturbated, and when he did, it was more for reasons of relief than pleasure. He knew John pleasured himself. For a brief moment, Sherlock considered various ways of working out how frequently John engaged in such activities, but as always, the simplest solution was the most effective. Sherlock had simply asked him. John only hesitated for a moment before answering that it was something that he did almost daily. A quick Google sea rch suggested that this was a perfectly average. It also had the side effect of lending credence to Sherlock's theory that he was in some way dysfunctional.

A bit more time on the internet also told him that his lack of any sexual interest could be put down to any number of reasons – mental, physical, environmental, chemical... The only real way to find the correct cure would be to experiment and test all the variables.

The easiest place to start was with the chemical factors. Switching the tea and coffee to decaf would be easy enough, since he drank mostly to have something to do with his hands than for the caffeine. The nicotine would be more difficult. He was up to six patches a day, depending on just how bored he'd managed to become. Cutting back would be easier, but probably not as effective. And quitting all together sounded boring and tedious.

Just thinking about the matter made him want to reach for the box on his desk and slap two or three patche s on his arm. As though proving to himself that he had the willpower, he turned his back toward the desk and turned his attention back to his laptop.

He was drumming his thumbs on the trackpad, eyes completely unfocused, when John wandered into the sitting room.

“You all right?” asked John.

Sherlock gave a light start. He hadn't even heard John come in. He didn't even remember loading the page his browser was on. He needed a nicotine patch.

No. Cutting back. For John.

“What?” Sherlock asked, looking up at him. “Yes. Fine.”

John narrowed his eyes as he moved carefully over to the sofa. “You sure?” he asked. “You're a bit... bouncy.” His eyes flicked to the small blue box on the desk. “How many have you had today?”

Sherlock had to think for a moment on the question. “Two. I think.”

John's eyebrows arched dramatically. “Glad to see that you're cutting back, but don't quit all together,” he warned. � ��Nicotine withdrawal can be just as nasty as any other drug.”

Sherlock gave up on trying to read the page on diet and sex drive, and closed his laptop. “I wouldn't know,” he said simply. A quick glance at John revealed questions that weren't being asked, likely out of nervousness. “A person can use recreationally without becoming addicted. Not everyone who uses is a junkie.”

John nodded lightly, and then narrowed his eyes. “You're talking about nicotine, or...?”

“Cocaine is not a bad word, John. You can say it,” Sherlock said.

John nodded again. “I don't think there's any question about the nicotine,” he said.

Sherlock glanced back at the box and felt himself twitch. “Almost certainly,” he agreed.

“Any reason why we're suddenly quitting?” John asked curiously.

Why would he say 'we?' He didn't smoke, and he seemed to get rather annoyed at the patches. It probably wasn't a proverbial we, where he really m eant 'you.' 'We' meant what it meant. Of course. John would want to help him through this, being a doctor and a... boyfriend.

They'd have to come up with a better noun. That one was terrible.

“I don't want to have sex with you,” Sherlock said, and he immediately realised that it was the wrong thing to say.

John inhaled deeply and shifted his jaw. “Yes, I know,” he said tersely. “You've said. More than once.”

“But I want to,” Sherlock said. It didn't sound right. There was something missing.

“You don't want to, but you want to?” John asked. “Talk about your mixed signals.”

“No,” Sherlock said. But he couldn't think of anything to follow it with.

“So what?” John asked. “The enforced celibacy isn't supposed to happen until after the newly-wed phase wears off.”

What did that mean? Looking it up on the internet hardly seemed the correct move, and John didn't seem like he was in the mood to explain himself. So Sherlock ignored it.

“I want to want to,” Sherlock said, trying to explain. “It's possible nicotine is a factor, which is why I've decided to cut back.”

John actually laughed. “You haven't even tried,” he pointed out. “You don't want to because you're uptight or repressed or something. I don't know.”

“I am not,” Sherlock argued back.

And then John said something that Sherlock didn't know how to counter.

“Prove it,” he said. “My room or yours?”

“Right now?” asked Sherlock. “I'm sort of...”

“Not attracted to me?” asked John.

“Busy,” Sherlock said slowly.

John shook his head as he got to his feet. “Of course you are,” he said. “You keep doing what you're doing. When you're done, I might be in my room.”

Sherlock didn't know what to do to stop him, so he stayed on the sofa and watched him leave, taking the stairs two at a time to his room. A few moments aft er John disappeared from view, Sherlock heard an upstairs door – likely the one to John's room – slam shut.

How had he managed to lose control of that conversation so easily? Even after explaining that what he was doing was for John, it had still turned into an argument.

Was this like when they had tried to shower together? Had he expected Sherlock to follow? Would be be angry if Sherlock did follow? Would he get mad if Sherlock didn't?

Could he possibly manage to be any more angry with Sherlock?

It didn't seem like it, from where Sherlock was sitting, so following after him couldn't make things much worse. John would likely push Sherlock out of his room (wouldn't be the first time, actually, but it hadn't happened since everything had changed), and Sherlock would just retreat back to the sofa. And if he was expected to follow, then he'd be doing the right thing.

Sherlock got to his feet and followed after John. He nearly pushed the door ope n, but it occurred to him that maybe, just this once, he should probably knock. Might be easier if he didn't have to watch John rejecting him.

“What?” John snapped from behind the door.

“Can I come in?” Sherlock tried. It seemed like the right thing to say.

Even from behind the door, he could hear John sigh. “Yeah, fine. Whatever.”

It wasn't a rejection. Sherlock slowly opened the door and peered inside. John was lying on his bed, doing something to his phone. Whether he was playing a game, or struggling with his email again, it was impossible to tell from this angle.

“Going to tell me how much you don't want me again?” asked John bitterly.

“But I want to,” Sherlock said, still lingering in the door. He'd upset John, and he hated it. He didn't know why, but he wanted John to be happy with him.

It wasn't something he ever recalled wanting from anyone ever before. Odd.

“Because that's what I've always wanted ,” John said. “Someone to want to, maybe some day, be into me.”

“I've not ruled out the possibility of it being medically-related,” Sherlock tried.

“Yeah, that is possible,” John agreed, still not keeping the bite from his voice. “The way you run yourself ragged and abuse yourself, I'm surprised you're even able to stand at all. It's also just as likely all in your head, because you're an uptight wanker.”

Sherlock finally stepped into the room proper, shutting the door behind him. “We can,” he said. “If you want.”

John looked up at him sceptically. “Do you want to?” he asked.

Sherlock considered this. “I want to do what you want,” he said.

“Not what I asked.”

John stared at him, and it was clear that he'd only accept one answer. Sherlock shrugged.

“Yes,” he said.

John's eyes narrowed. “Fucking liar. Get out.”

He made no move to get up and physically remove Sherlock from his room, but he didn't have to. Sherlock did as he said and turned to leave the room, shutting the door quietly behind him. He'd told John what he wanted to hear, so why was he still upset with him? He didn't want the truth any more than he wanted to be lied to.

Sherlock had absolutely no idea what to do, so he wandered back down to the sofa in the hopes that he could figure it out without the aid of several nicotine patches on his arm.


End file.
